


On Fantasies and Fan Fiction

by Spiraling



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Sex, is this meta or is this fanfiction?, mentions of biting, the world may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiraling/pseuds/Spiraling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt sent to me anonymously on tumblr:<br/>"Harry Watson tells her brother about a site called Tumblr, and a tag called Johnlock. John decides to look at it and finds a rather interesting fanfiction, which is /very/ graphic but also has strange, personal details in it (for example: John likes to be bitten during sex, in the fic John is bitten during sex) that alarms John. He shows it to Sherlock, a bit embarrassed of course, and asks him if he knows who wrote this, and it turns out that Sherlock has written that himself. And then.. well, it can turn into hot smut or great awkwardness, you can decide for yourself."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Fantasies and Fan Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> This was written probably around this time last year, when all the hubub was happening with Benedict and Martin knowing about fan fiction and the entire fandom freaking out about it. So, I sort of translated that into the (plausible, imo) scenario of Sherlock and John discovering that they have their own fandom, since both of them are so present on the internet and in the news in canon.

When the phone call came, Sherlock Holmes was off with Detective Inspector Lestrade putting the finishing touches on their most recent case before it went to court while John Watson was alone at their flat, blogging about it. The man looked up sharply, startled by the sudden ringing of his mobile in the silent home, then furrowed his brow as he wondered who it could be that was calling him. Ever since Sherlock Holmes had entered his life, John had been getting much more used to texting than talking. Curiously, he stood from his chair and hurried into the kitchen to retrieve his phone from the counter top.

"Hello?" he answered, and was greeted by a loud, familiar laugh. The caller was his sister, clearly inebriated. Stifling a sigh, John leaned against the counter on his elbows, thumb and forefinger of the hand not holding his phone coming up to massage his temples. "Hey, Harry."

"Ohhhh Johnny Johnny John," the woman slurred, giggling away. "You simply will not _believe_ what I've found!"

John pursed his lips, imagining embarrassing childhood photos of the pair of them or possibly even home videos. "What have you found?" he asked, not particularly caring or knowing why she'd decided to phone him.

Harry started to reply, interrupted herself with a wild fit of laughter, and instead of continuing her previous thought asked, "Are you- are you on the internet?"

The man stood up straight, raising an eyebrow as he turned in the direction of his computer. Now he was curious. What could his estranged sister possibly find online that she thought was so hilarious it must be shared with him? "Yeah, yeah I can be," he replied as he returned to the desk where his laptop waited. "What is it?"

The voice on the phone got her laughter under control just long enough to blurrily instruct, "Okay, okay, listen carefully. Type this exactly as I say it into the address bar." John typed with one hand as his sister slowly dictated to him. The URL she sent him to appeared to be a blogging site, specifically a post that had been titled _'Johnlock'._ Never having heard the phrase before, John thought little of it, and again asked Harry what it was that she was showing him while he waited for the page to load. "Just read it. Just read it and- and thank me later." With another loud round of laughter the line disconnected and John was left with the now completely loaded blog entry.

To John's immense surprise, it was about him. Him and Sherlock, to be specific.

The man's eyes were wide as he scanned the post. There was a disclaimer at the top stating that it was a work of fiction, but John couldn't stop himself from wondering if it was even _legal_ to write what he was reading. He swallowed thickly as sentence after sentence of an explicit, detailed depiction of himself and his flatmate having passionate sex scrolled across the screen. John's face was a bright red as embarrassment flooded his consciousness. He couldn't believe that someone had thought up and written something so raunchy about himself and his closest friend. He couldn't even bring himself to laugh it off because it was so incredibly well-written. Although the story involved situations - quite a few situations - that could never possibly occur between the two men, the grammar, spelling, and terminology were spectacular. Despite being mortified by the content, as well as the fact that his sister and God only knew how many other people, had read the story, John couldn't help but be impressed with the writing.

He scrolled back up to the top of the web page and noticed the title once more - _Johnlock._ Suddenly realising that it was a combination of his and Sherlock's names, the man opened a new tab in his browser and searched the word to see what other results popped up. To his shock and embarrassment, there were other results. Many, _many,_ other results. John scrolled through page after page of links, opening up multiple tabs with more stories - mostly sexual - as well as explanatory posts detailing why some people thought they were secretly a couple and others thought they weren't and still others thought they weren't even being secretive about their relationship. He was poring over one particularly long forum post describing every single little interaction between the pair of them that John had written about in his blog or that had been on the news, and how these instances so clearly proved they were romantically involved, when Sherlock returned home.

John started, looking up quickly at the sound of the front door opening followed by the other man's quick steps up the stairs. "Sherlock!" he called, leaning back in his seat and scrolling back up to the top of the page he was on. "Come here, you've got to see this." Sherlock reached the top of the stairs and walked straight past the desk where his flatmate sat.

"What is it?" the brunette asked from the kitchen as he busily prepared himself a quick snack. Now that their case was finished, he would allow himself to eat again.

John's eyes flitted from his computer screen to his friend and back again, and he let out a small laugh as he realized there was no way he could actually _tell_ Sherlock what he had found. "Just, just come here and look at this," he said instead, and suddenly his phone conversation with his sister made a lot more sense. John was sure he would be laughing hysterically too if he were drunk.

Sherlock poked his head through the archway between the kitchen and the den, a thick slice of bread between his lips and one eyebrow arching high into his forehead. He pulled the bread from his mouth and swallowed the piece he had bitten off before asking, "Are you okay? You look a little flustered."

John's brow furrowed and his lips pursed, an expression of mock concentration forming on his face as he turned his attention back to his findings. "Yeah, yeah 'flustered' is definitely one way of putting it," he replied with a touch of sarcasm. "Just come here, will you?" Sherlock shrugged and joined John at the desk.

"What is it, what have you found?" he droned, sounding completely uninterested as he leaned against the desk with one hand and held his slice of bread in the other.

"Look at this stuff," John replied, opening tabs and scrolling through them. "They call it _'Johnlock'_. People actually think we're a couple! They write fictional stories about us!" He gave a disbelieving laugh, but his flatmate appeared utterly unfazed.

"Oh, you found our fan fiction," Sherlock stated, moving away from the other man without so much as a second glance at the computer.

"Our fan fi- You mean you knew about this stuff?" He swivelled in his seat, watching as the taller man nonchalantly dropped himself down into his armchair and finished off his snack as he picked up that day's paper.

"Oh, yeah. I found it while Googling your blog. Interesting arguments, some of our fans have. They tell great stories as well."

John was flabbergasted. "You mean you've read this stuff? And it doesn't bother you? It doesn't creep you out a little bit?"

Sherlock looked up from the newspaper and gave his colleague a questioning glance. "Why would I be bothered by it? At least they're generous with our bodily proportions."

Realisation dawned on John's face and he couldn't help but gape openly at the other man. "I can't believe you. You're actually flattered by this, you egotistical git!" The detective didn't reply, having already turned his attention back to his reading material, but the smirk that spread across his lips spoke volumes. "Well here, you clearly haven't read the same things I've read." John picked up his laptop and carried it over to Sherlock, setting it down right atop the paper in his lap. "Look at this one. You're dressed up as a nurse and only refer to me as 'Doctor'." He switched to another tab. "In this one - oh, this one has multiple chapters - in this one you're an exhibitionist who gets off on basically raping me in various public places." He switched tabs. "And this one, surprisingly, _this_ one is the creepiest of all."

John moved his hands away from the laptop and allowed Sherlock to read through the story that was currently on screen. The detective's expression went from uninterested to purposely blanked as his eyes scanned the story at light speed. "What about this one?" he asked. "Why is this one the creepiest?" John could tell by his tone that Sherlock had already realised it.

"They describe the inside of our flat. _Accurately._ They know what kind of tea each of us prefers. And.." John trailed off, not wanting to speak aloud the final nail in the coffin that made this story different from the rest.

"And?" Sherlock asked, handing the laptop back to its owner.

The shorter male sighed as he closed the laptop, tucking it back under his arm. The hand that wasn't occupied with holding the computer made nervous gestures around his throat as he awkwardly answered, "In that one, you... You bite my neck."

"And?" Sherlock repeated, folding up the crumpled newspaper and setting it on the small table next to his seat.

"Oh, come on!" John said with exasperation. "Surely you know it's an insult to the both of us for us to stand here and pretend that you've never noticed the teeth marks on my neck when I come home from spending the night at a woman's house." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Sherlock, the person who wrote this _knows_ us. Has been in our flat. Likely works with us! Doesn't it bother you at all that someone we know not only thinks these things about us, but writes them out and posts them on the internet for strangers to read?"

The brunette shrugged. "Not particularly."

John gaped. He knew by this point that he should never underestimate the lengths to which his flatmate could remain indifferent, but it still surprised him that Sherlock had absolutely no humility. Needing a moment to gather his thoughts, John slowly returned to their desk, setting down his laptop and plugging it in to charge before returning to Sherlock's side. "Okay then," he started again, "who do you think has written this, hm? Even if it doesn't bother you, you must wonder who it was."

With an annoyed sigh, Sherlock stood from his armchair and wandered into the kitchen, John in tow. "I don't _need_ to wonder, John."

The shorter man stood in the archway, watching his friend incredulously. "Oh, please," he said. "You mean to tell me you could tell which of our acquaintances wrote that story just from skimming it?" John laughed disbelievingly as Sherlock dug through the fridge. "Even you can't do that, you didn't even read the whole thing!"

Another sigh parted the detective's lips as he stood, emerging from the refrigerator empty-handed and sounding as though this conversation were the most bothersome thing he had ever experienced. "I didn't need to finish reading it, I'm the one who wrote it." Sherlock brushed past John, out of the kitchen and toward his bedroom as though he'd said nothing out of the ordinary. John blinked a few times, trying to wrap his head around this new information before turning and following the younger man.

"You... What..." He wasn't really able to put his thoughts into coherent sentences until they had reached the doorway leading into Sherlock's room, where John leaned against the door frame as Sherlock bustled about the room. "What do you mean you're the one who wrote it?" he asked, watching the brunette nonchalantly removing his suit jacket and hanging it up. "You're joking, right?"

Sherlock's brow wrinkled but he didn't look up from his current task of turning down his bed as he asked, "Why would I joke about that?"

John gave a disbelieving scoff. "Why would you write... _word porn_ about us?" he countered. His word choice finally got his flatmate's attention.

"Word porn?" Sherlock asked. With a bit of a smirk he added, "I prefer the term 'erotic literature'."

"Yeah, well, dress it up all you want, word porn is what it is. And you still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

" _Why_ would you write it?"

Sherlock finally paused in his continued hustle and bustle and turned toward his friend. He seemed to be putting actual thought into explaining himself and John watched his expression expectantly. "I was... _frustrated_ , I found our 'fandom' - as they call themselves - while searching for your blog, and I found writing out my thoughts to be a rather cathartic experience." He gauged John's reaction as the other man wrapped his head around what he was hearing. After a few moments he shrugged and smiled, adding, "It also proved to be quite a time-consuming distraction from my boredom."

For a few minutes it seemed as though John's brow was permanently furrowed and his bottom jaw would never again meet its upper counterpart, but he did eventually get himself collected enough to speak. "So, let me get this straight," he started, stepping away from the door frame and uncrossing his arms from over his chest, his hands unconsciously gesturing around as he spoke. "You were _bored_ , so you made up, wrote out, and posted online, a story about you using my biting fetish against me and then the pair of us having wild sex?"

"Yes, that's what I just told you," Sherlock replied in a slightly frustrated tone, clearly not seeing where John's confusion lay.

"You _really_ don't understand what is not okay about this, do you?" John asked.

"No, I can't say I do."

"It's an invasion of privacy, Sherlock!" John was nearly shouting, his arms flailing out in exasperation.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together and his tone remained neutral. "How is it an invasion of privacy if the story isn't true?"

John let out a sigh, letting himself fall against the door frame once more as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut. "It's the principle of the thing, Sherlock," he answered, sounding defeated. "You just don't write stuff like that."

"People write _'stuff like that'_ all the time," Sherlock countered, his tone mocking John's word choice.

"Not about people they know!" the doctor clarified. "If you make up characters and write an original story that is _one hundred percent_ fictional, that's one thing. More power to you. But normal people don't write out elaborate sexual fantasies about their friends!" He crossed his arms over his chest and muttered, "Or at least if they do, they don't post them online for the whole world to read."

Sherlock merely smirked. "In the time that you've known me, have I for one second struck you as normal?"

But John didn't reply. He stared down at the carpet, brow again furrowed in thought, as his conscious mind caught up to his spur of the moment dialogue. It finally fully occurred to him that what Sherlock had written was a sexual fantasy. His eyes darted back and forth, connecting invisible dots as Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, watching his flatmate curiously. When John glanced up and found he was being observed, he continued his thought process aloud. "You said... you were writing down your _thoughts_?" he asked, making sure he hadn't misunderstood.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded.

"And.. how long, exactly, did you have these.. _frustrated_ thoughts," he threw in another of Sherlock's own words, "before you decided to write said thoughts out?"

Sherlock shrugged, frowning slightly in thought. "I don't see how that makes any difference."

"It makes a difference to _me_ , Sherlock," John tossed back, volume raising again. "I would like to know how long my flatmate and colleague has been having sexual fantasies about me!"

Sherlock's eyebrows wrinkled together. "You're angry; why are you angry? I'd have thought you'd be flattered."

John shoved himself away from the wall with his shoulder, immediately regretting it when he realized it was his left shoulder that he had been leaning against. "Well clearly even you don't think very hard sometimes, do you?" he asked sarcastically, turning and starting off toward his own bedroom without waiting for an answer. Sherlock stared after him for a moment, not entirely sure where the conversation had gone wrong but realising, even with his limited knowledge of social propriety, that his friend needed his space. With a frown and a small sigh when he heard John's door slam, Sherlock closed his own bedroom door and started preparing himself for bed.

-:-

Sherlock was already awake and sprawled haphazardly across the sofa when John emerged from his quarters the next morning. John ignored the younger man, walking straight past him and into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. He was surprised to find a pot had already been made. The doctor turned slowly on his heel, searching the kitchen for any signs of tidying that would suggest Mrs. Hudson paid them an early morning visit and decided to make coffee for them, but everything seemed to be in its usual, disorganised place. He sighed, letting the last remnants of his anger ebb at his flatmate's silent attempt at an apology. He made a cup of coffee for himself and, after glancing at the small table next to the sofa to see that Sherlock didn't yet have a cup, made one for him as well.

John returned to the sofa with both cups in hand. "You made coffee," he stated. Sherlock turned his head in John's direction, spurred on less by his voice and more by the small sound of his friend setting the second cup down on the table between them. With a nod, Sherlock hauled himself up into a sitting position. "Thank you."

"Thanks for bringing me some," Sherlock replied, picking up the cup and taking a sip. John nodded, hesitating for a moment in an attempt to find something else to say. When words failed him, he merely moved to his armchair and sat down.

John turned on the television and the pair of them sat in only mildly uncomfortable silence, watching the newscast and drinking down their coffee, until Sherlock finished his and sloppily threw himself back upon the sofa. The shorter male looked over at his flatmate when the brunette let out a loud sigh.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, although he had a pretty good idea at the answer.

"Bored," Sherlock droned.

John rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the television and sipping his coffee. "You _just_ finished a case yesterday. Don't you enjoy at least a bit of down time?"

Sherlock's head rolled to the side and he threw a half-hearted glare in John's direction, which the older man missed entirely. Sighing at his failed attempt, Sherlock replied, "You clearly don't know me as well as I thought you did, Watson."

John paused, blinking a few times before setting down his mug and turning toward his flatmate, raising an eyebrow. "Watson? When did you start calling me Watson?"

"Oh, about twelve seconds ago," Sherlock estimated in an uninterested tone, rolling back over and muttering into the sofa cushions about how dull life was when there wasn't any crime. John laughed softly at his childish behaviour.

"If you're so bored, why don't you - oh, I don't know - write some more word porn?" the doctor ventured. Sherlock groaned.

"You're not going to continue on about that, are you?" he questioned.

"Just a thought," John replied with a shrug. "I was only asking." In reality, he truly was curious as to whether or not his flatmate would be writing more stories about them. As far as he could tell, the story he'd found had been the only one Sherlock had written yet, but you never really knew when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

With a heavy sigh, as though the physical labour involved in standing up were the most difficult challenge he had ever had to face, Sherlock rose from the sofa and instead flopped himself down into his armchair, opposite John. "If you must know, no, I won't be writing any more," he said, eyes on the television rather than John. "I really only had the one fantasy and it wouldn't have the same effect to just write out the same scene again."

John watched him as he spoke, one brow raised. "You don't _have_ to write about me, you know. You could write about any fantasy in general."

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter in his seat, eyes flicking between John and the TV as he shifted uncomfortably. "I meant in general," he said quietly. "That is the only fantasy I have.. in general."

John stilled, eyes measuring Sherlock's features for any sign of dishonesty, but the detective looked truly flustered. A wave of embarrassment at the fact that _he_ was the great Sherlock Holmes' one and only fantasy washed over the soldier, threatening to drown him. The only reply he could manage was a quiet, "Oh," before turning his attention back to the television. The pair sat together in their armchairs for the rest of the morning, silently pretending to watch the talk shows that followed the newscast. Sherlock didn't say another word about his boredom.

-:-

It was a few days later when the topic was brought up again, this time by Sherlock. They still didn't have a new case to work on and the consulting detective felt as though he were going out of his mind. Although he had pondered the topic for quite a while, curiosity was only a small factor in Sherlock broaching the subject. He was mostly just looking for another heated discussion, or possibly even a fight, to get him riled up just enough to calm him down.

"So how did you get into it?" The question came without warning, over lunch.

John thought for a few moments, trying to remember if there was some conversation they'd had within the past few hours that Sherlock's distractable mind could still be immersed in, but he couldn't think of anything this sudden inquiry applied to. "Get into what?" he asked, setting down his fork. Something told him the conversation was about to put an end to his appetite.

"That whole biting thing," Sherlock replied. "There must be a story behind it. Is it some sort of vampire play? Has the desire always been there or did it sneak up on you?" Even Sherlock would admit the questions were a bit too personal, but he was in the mood for a good row.

Meanwhile, the clarification only caused John even more confusion. After the probing questions, John could only stare at the other man across the table for a few moments before speaking up. "I don't know if that's something I want to discuss with my flatmate over lunch." He quickly wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood from the table, taking his plate and utensils to the sink.

"Wha- why not?" Sherlock called after him, a little surprised by his reluctance. "I shared my fantasy with you, it's only fair for you to at least share the story behind one of yours with me!"

"No, no, no," John corrected, turning from the sink and pointing a finger at the detective. "You didn't share it with me, you shared it with thousands of strangers reading on the internet."

"Knowing full well when I posted it that you could be one of those readers," Sherlock agreed with a nod. "And I admitted to having written it. It would have been very easy for me to keep my secret by pointing the finger at one of your girlfriends. They would, of course, have intimate knowledge of our flat and your biting preferences, and so many of them did seem so convinced that we were a couple."

John turned his attention back to cleaning the dishes, if only to avoid gaping at the brunette's easy rationalisation. When he actually tried to make others see things the way he saw them, rather than simply insulting the person's intelligence, he really could make just about anything sound logical. If he had better people skills Sherlock could be a salesman, and could probably sell gloves to a person without arms. With a sigh, John relented. "Alright, fine," he said as he turned off the faucet but stayed in front of the sink, staring at the wall in front of him rather than at his flatmate. "D'you know how all the psychologists say, your first sexual experience is sort of your reference point for how sex _should_ be? That your first experience is rooted in your mind for the rest of your adult life?"

"Yes, I've heard that," Sherlock replied in a non-committal tone. He didn't give much cop to most psycho-babble, except for behavioural psychology which could be used in deduction.

"Well, my first girlfriend was a bit older than me, and she liked biting. She bit me and I guess, I guess it imprinted on my mind." John looked thoroughly embarrassed at sharing this information, but Sherlock barely cocked an eyebrow.

"That's it?" he asked, unimpressed. "That's a bit of a dull story, don't you think?"

John's shoulders slouched. He wasn't sure if he should be comforted by Sherlock's disinterest or offended that he didn't think it was that big of a deal. "We can't all be as interesting as the great Sherlock Holmes," the older man said sarcastically, exiting the kitchen and making himself comfortable in his armchair in the living room.

Sherlock followed not long after, heart still set on raising a bit of hell. "Do the girls always go for it?" he asked as he headed toward his own seat, eliciting a sigh from his flatmate. "What do you do if your girlfriend isn't up for biting?"

"How about instead of asking me about it, you go write out what you think the answer is?" John asked, annoyance slipping into his voice as he flipped through the television channels.

"Well, first of all, that wouldn't answer my question," Sherlock replied. "Secondly, it wouldn't hold my interest. I only had the attention span to write out the first one because it was a fantasy. Speculating about your sex life for no real reason wouldn't exactly be-"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" John asked suddenly, turning off the TV and facing in Sherlock's direction.

"Tell you? Tell you what?" Sherlock was caught off guard. He couldn't imagine what John was asking about, or what topic would warrant this sudden change in his behaviour.

"That you had fantasies- er, a fantasy - about me," the doctor clarified. Sherlock sat up a little straighter, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"I... didn't know how you would take it," Sherlock admitted.

"You? Didn't know?" John gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "You mean you couldn't deduce how I felt about you after all this time of spending almost twenty four hours a day with me?"

"Well, I probably could have, but I prefer not to- Oh!" The detective interrupted himself as realisation struck. " _Oh_ , I see. You thought it was an invasion of your privacy for me to post the story online because it's your fantasy, too." John broke eye contact, realising he had given himself away. "You weren't upset that I had the fantasy, you were upset that I never told you about it." Sherlock watched his flatmate as the shorter man refused to make eye contact, a barely noticeable blush colouring his cheeks. The detective stood from his arm chair, grabbing the desk chair instead and pulling it up close to John's chair so he could sit down next to his friend.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, resting a hand on John's forearm. John was looking down into his lap now, glancing at Sherlock's hand on his arm but still avoiding eye contact. "I should have paid closer attention. If I had known-"

"No, no, it's fine," John interrupted, waving a hand in Sherlock's direction and causing the younger man's hand to slip off of his arm. "I appreciate you giving me my space and not constantly deducing me."

"Oh, but if I had just looked a _little_ harder!" Both Sherlock's hands went up to ruffle his messy hair, his tone becoming less apologetic and more self-criticising.

John gave a small scoff of a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, I tried bloody hard to hide it."

"You can't hide anything from me."

"Clearly I can."

"Only because I wasn't looking. If I had been trying-"

"Oh, shut up." John silenced his flatmate by grabbing hold of his collar and pulling him down until their lips met. It was a bold move that John wouldn't normally make, but given recent events it seemed like the perfect thing to do. He was reassured when he moved his lips slowly against Sherlock's and the younger man followed suit. After a few moments John released his hold on Sherlock's shirt, allowing his hand to slide down the other's clothed chest instead. One of Sherlock's hands found its way to John's cheek and gently cupped his face, John leaning slightly into the touch as he parted his lips and slid his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip. Their faces were so close John could feel Sherlock's brow furrow as he hesitantly let his own tongue slip out to meet John's.

The kiss broke when John chuckled softly. All he could think of was how much of their 'fan fiction' Sherlock would have had to read for him to write such a racy story, for he was clearly lacking in personal experience. He let his forehead lean against Sherlock's as he laughed, and the detective watched him warily.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, the barest hint of worry creeping into his voice. John calmed him by pressing a quick, chaste kiss against his flatmate's lips.

"Nothing," he assured. "I was just thinking, you said it would be boring to write up the same story again?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered hesitantly, unsure of what John was getting at.

"Well, how would you feel about re-enacting the story?" John licked his lips subconsciously, and Sherlock couldn't help leaning forward and sucking the other man's tongue into his mouth.


End file.
